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The Tryst by Grace Livingston Hill
Patricia Merrill, richly clad in gray duvetyne with moleskin trimmings, soft shod in gray suede boots, came slowly down the stairs from the third story, fastening her glove as she went. The top button was refractory and she paused in the middle of the stairs to give it her undivided attention. The light from the great ground-glass skylight overhead sifted down in a pool of brightness about her, and gave a vivid touch to the knot of coral velvet in her little moleskin toque. She was a pretty picture as she stood there with that drifting light about her like silver rain, and a wistful look in her eyes and about her lips.
A voice sailed out like a dart from the half-open door at the foot of the stairs and stabbed her heart:
"Has Patricia gone?”
Why would her mother always call her "Patricia” in that formal, distant way, as if she were not intimate with her at all?
A Charming Christian Novel!